Love Dog
by Tsar Bomba
Summary: Short and loosely connected chapters consisting mostly of ponderously vague angst, some silly fluff, possibly smut and very little actual plot. Missy/Clara.
1. Chapter 1

"Lonely little Clara, lovesick little Clara. My Clara, my love dog."

She sang the words out cruelly though her smile was genuine. Cold and feral and real, her intentions as pure as her madness. She had no reason to deceive Clara, to manipulate. Clara is clay in her fist. Missy never hides her fixations and she knows when they exists in others. Fascination is her topic. Hard eyes soften at the timid form blurred in the gloom. "My Clara, I knew you'd come to me."

The sensation of being torn between realities is a disquieting one and Clara stood trembling on her feet, staring at the outline of her captor, the frenzy of curls and the tails of her jacket. She looked around, shook her head. She knows this place. Missy had taken her to Skaro. Back to the desert, though this time she wasn't hung up by her ankles. "Doesn't count, Missy," she breathed, unable to hide the fear shaking through her voice, "when you kidnap me."

"But you, my darling, you did not fight me."

Clara swallowed and looked up. Skaro looked different in evening light. Missy was backlit by the City, glowing purple and gold with lights in the navy evening. The twin suns hung over the edge of distant skyscrapers, both the color of steel. Behind them raw mountains, cutting a jagged edge into the darkening sky, like a divine scrawl against which the heavens met the bones of the earth. At the opposite end of the sky was a huge moon, a white terminal that met the suns at the same longitude in space and sat staring, casting a pale glow over the rocks below. Missy was walking circles around her but she was also dancing, carrying on over the grey stones and never looking away from Clara. She could have found it beautiful if her circumstances weren't those of a woman held captive by an individual with both a tendency towards violence and the ability to play with time as if it were a toy. Missy studied her with a wide-eyed openness, one that made Clara nervous with its intensity.

"I'll take you the black oceans next time," Missy said, tossing her head over her shoulder to look where the stars rose in a spray of white, "thousands and thousands of black holes, swallowing and swallowing. You wouldn't believe it."

Missy also found beauty in destruction. Clara wondered if her own strange attraction to the Doctor had truly been for him or if she simply had a thing for individuals with a god complex. "Next time?"

Missy turned to her then, her striking face locked again on Clara's, a free curl framing her face. She took long waltzing steps around her, her proud profile shadowed by the night as she turned elegantly on her heels, her eyes cold and frantic, the wind violently whipping her skirt around her ankles. Clara has never known the woman to be capable of stillness. "I've watched you, my Clara, my puppy, staring out your window at that school. Yearning, needing, waiting, so desperately and devoutly. Poor Clara, always needing to escape from your dull dull life. But the escape has become everything, hasn't it? How do you make yourself free of it? It's like a drug, you take it once and you want more more more. What happens when it isn't enough? You try a new drug."

Missy's voice was almost childish, the tones and inflections taut with barely controlled mania. Her words built upon those before them, growing higher and higher as her smile widened. Clara swung her face at her, the crease between her big eyes betraying her. "You were watching me?"

Missy's teeth flashed, her smirk predatory, her eyes narrow then widen as she spoke, her motions careful and rehearsed and yet rife with an unpredictability that only she seemed capable of. Always the theatrical one. "Half the time you're staring out that window, waiting for the Doctor to whisk you away, to take you somewhere new, you're not looking for him. You're looking for me."

Clara blushed but did not look away. No point. Missy felt the small blood rush like a heatwave and Clara knew it. Missy's lips curled into her cheekbones, triumphant. "I'm the drug, my Clara. I know you love to play the hero, the faithful sidekick at the back of the dear Doctor, saving every little backworld civilization you come across, but deep down, past those big puppy eyes and that bleeding heart of yours, you have a fascination with disaster."

Missy was still dancing circles around her, long legs lightly drifting over the sand, her head swung back and her throat exposed. Clara wasn't sure if she wanted to slit it or place her lips upon it. She chewed her cheek. "You're a murderer. You're an uncaring psychopath. You're heartless."

"So is the Doctor," she nearly sang, flitting about, ever out of reach, her long thin shadow stretching over the flatland and twisting under the evening redness.

"Don't compare yourself to him," Clara said between clenched jaws, turning on her feet to follow the Mistress with her gaze. "He's a good man. You're a murderous bitch."

Missy mocked her with her raised brows, her wounded pout. "Yes, yes. Curse me out. Howl, little puppy. It doesn't change anything. I've heard it all. And I know you don't mean it."

Missy stayed, infuriatingly, right out of Clara's reach. "What do you want from me?"

Missy did not skip a beat, her words flowing easily with her ever moving body as she paced the desert, looking more and more the wolf and less the lady. "I want to take you places," she said simply, boldly, her confidence a mask for her loneliness.

"Why?"

"You bore me with your ceaseless questions," Missy said, utterly serious. Clara knew of the attention spans of Time Lords and Ladies, and they did not outlive that of a childish god, always greedy for more, right now, 30 seconds ago. When one lives as long as they do, time does not slow, it must go faster lest they stagnate. Missy, who never stopped moving, seemed afraid of stillness. Clara wrapped her arms around herself. "Why would I go with you?"

"Because you want to."

"Why would I want to go anywhere with someone who tried to have me killed?"

"Because you're tired of silence being the answer to your devotion," Missy said simply, and Clara felt sick. Missy caught her expression and her eyes softened. "It doesn't have to be," she said quietly, moving slower.

Clara realized then that what she desperately needed was therapy. What she wanted was another matter. "I hate you."

Missy had been waiting for this surrender, and she smiled again, fevered and relentless. Missy, who leaned closer to her, her lips near Clara's ear, she who could flatter and make her flutter without a word. Missy, who reveled in demise: either her own or someone else's, who seemed to fear stillness more than she feared death. Missy who was burned by patience, took Clara away to the black ocean that very night, and they stood in empty space watching whole stars being eaten, entire systems. For Clara, this did not feel like a betrayal, not when Missy was as shameless as that hungry ocean when she clasped her arms with all her rage and all her love and kissed her, drew her in between red lips possessively, her whole body vibrating with a violent and wild energy. Missy's love was white-knuckled and almost drunkenly Clara pulled her arms around her waist and tried and failed to make her be still.


	2. Chapter 2

The scene in her thoughts played on a loop and drew itself across her temples, panoramic and wildly vibrant. A swirl of navy and pale blue and all those stars methodically disappearing into a huge pitch-black vortex. The darkening of the already dark sky. The white noise of space, a hum that was both oppressive and total, and then Missy, spinning and spinning in the murk, seemingly oblivious to the violence happening just outside or perhaps fueled by it. Dancing and dancing, only pausing once to grasp Clara with hands as cold as steel, her long fingers skittering over Clara's shoulders then down her arms and then leaning forward and taking Clara's lips with her own. The kiss itself was just like Missy, greedy and flighty and painful, with a lot of teeth. Clara could recall how the lapels of Missy's jacket felt under her trembling fingers, how she tried to hold her there before Missy spun away again, laughing, leaving Clara with bruised lips and the tumultuous combination of regret and want.

This had been weeks ago, and every day Clara worked to forget and to cling on to every detail she could. She was almost disgusted at the nameless emotion she felt when she woke to realize that her lips no longer bore the marks of Missy's presence.

To the Doctor she had said nothing, and of Missy she had seen nothing. Only half-hopeful glimpses of plum and now and then an echo of her laughter, loud and candid. A part of her wanted to run, as far away as she could, to spill to the Doctor what happened, to have him fix this, but that would mean admitting defeat, and Clara was fairly certain she could match even the Mistress in stubbornness.

Another part of her, one that Clara just wasn't ready to acknowledge, was drawn to Missy like a magnet, like a star to a black hole (the English teacher in her was almost giddy at that silly metaphor which though entirely unintended was ultimately too perfect). Whatever doubts and misgivings she had were quickly forgotten in a blur of riotous curls and curled lips and cold eyes. The candidness of her motives, "I want to take you places," echoed like a drumbeat in her ears, rhythmic and constant. In regards to Clara's own habits, Missy had spoken the truth, and though Clara somewhat shamed herself with her actions, here she was, leaning against a window in her classroom, staring outside and trying to will a lunatic into existence.

Times like these she wished she had friends other than the Doctor, even if she needed to lie to them about most of the facts, and more than that she really really needed to ask around for a decent therapist. But for now, she was just watching, staring out the window, proving Missy right with every second that passed.

One moment there was nothing there, so Clara blinked and then there was. The Mistress, her Mistress, as she herself had so vehemently corrected at their parting, for she was as keen on belonging as she was on possessing, manifested in the empty playground, quite literally out of thin air. Missy's immediate smirk in response to the wide-eyed gawk at her sudden appearance outside Clara's window both mocked the human and, against her better judgment, thrilled her (just a little, she would insist). Clara allowed herself a moment to just stare at her in awe and with a little fear and then mouthed through the window, "what are you doing?" Missy simply lifted a hand and beckoned her with a wave of her fingers, the motion a lazy one. Clara quickly shook her head, and Missy, in return, gave her a pout that could have melted the polar ice caps.

Clara turned her gaze behind her. Her students had their faces buried in their test booklets, some were taking notes. All of them were old enough and mature enough to behave themselves while she stepped out for a moment, at least that's what she told herself. Guiltily, she shifted her eyes back outside. Missy was dance-walking about the playground, a child in the body of a god. A beautiful, mad, murderous god.

"What do you think you're doing Clara?" she breathed through her teeth, and a couple of her students turned to the noise. She swallowed, acknowledging that Missy made her prone to doing irresponsible things but not really caring all that much.

"I'll be back in a moment. If anyone cheats... I'll... be very disappointed. Don't cheat!"

She nearly sprinted from the classroom, her students staring blankly at her retreating form, hurrying down the empty halls and pushing open the doors to the playground. Missy stood under a dreary, pale sky thick with clouds, smirking as Clara approached. She was cloaked in shades of blue and grey that muted her clothes and her red lips and softened her features. A cold but gentle wind made her skirt flutter. A wayward curl hung across her face. She looked like she did in the graveyard the day they met, and Clara felt herself slowing as she neared her. The confident twist in Missy's lips remained even when Clara stopped, distant. A genuine smile flitted briefly across Missy's visage, oblivious to Clara's reticence.

"Took you long enough."

She held out a hand. When Clara did not move to take it, Missy's smile weakened. "What's wrong, pup?"

The graveyard. Danny's pale face, the devastation in his voice, her cruelty, her laugh, the red in the sky, the rain of metal and sparks, the smell of ashes and ozone.

Clara took a step back.

"Clara?" her Mistress breathed, saying her name and not a moniker for once, her voice quieter, softer, than Clara had ever heard it. Her eyes pained and questioning. Missy moved towards her and Clara backed further away and then she froze. All Clara saw was the blood on Missy's hands. She stood there a moment, shook her head, muttered something under her breath, and then she turned away, ignoring the pull, the magnet that demanded she turn once more and into waiting arms, ignoring the final repetition of her name, a plea carried in the wind, as she returned inside. She glanced out the window only once more that day, and no one was there when she looked away.

* * *

This was supposed to be a one-shot. I changed my mind cause I'm new Misffle trash and needed to keep writing about them. I write quickly and eagerly and I'm positive that there are mistakes. Regardless, thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

"Boredom is no good darling. Especially not for simple-minded humans like yourself. I've seen what happens when your lot gets bored. You all end up looking like stymied apes. Which I guess is appropriate, considering that's what you are. Either that or you end up fixating on something, dumbly, even, because you don't know what to do about it, do you? Your species isn't an incredibly imaginative one. Not enough room up there for it, I'm afraid. You need a hobby, my Clara."

"Missy, what are you doing?"

Her Mistress smirked, dim shadows spreading in the hollows of her cheeks. With her lips she was an artist. "Shush now, dear," she muttered around the words, low and husky, her accent thick. "I'm still talking."

Warm firelight danced over this carnal scene, glowing and sourceless, a soft vignette at the edges of Clara's vision framing the form languid before her, as dangerous and entrancing as a poised cobra, clad only in black panties and the signature long jacket, black as well and unbuttoned, with nothing underneath save an expanse of pale skin. It was a striking contrast given the amount of her flesh that Missy tended to keep obscured. Dark fingernails traced a prominent collarbone down into the shallow dip between her breasts and to the hollow of her hip. Bare legs unfolded as she stood, her grin eternal and calculating, her steps slow as she came towards her audience who watched dumbfounded and awestruck. Poor Clara swallowed dryly, her tongue thick against the roof of her mouth, her big eyes even wider as Missy put curved lips to her ear, warm breath tickling her neck, the scent of smoke and lavender a heady musk that made Clara feel faint.

"To answer your question though: as a favor to you and your sweet, pretty little head, I'm leaving as little to your imagination as possible."

With a careful prod, Clara tumbled back, landing squarely in a chair behind her, mouth gaping, the gentle surprise of her brief descent eliciting a choked gasp. Missy spared no time in placing herself astride Clara's lap, thighs hooked on either side. Clara's trembling fingers fumbled clumsily across Missy's body, unable to move quickly enough and unable to touch enough and grasp enough. One of the Mistress's hands wrapped itself around the back of Clara's neck with a gentleness that made the short hairs along the base of her skull stand on end, while the other reached down between them to grope in the apex of Clara's legs, this time none too gently. Clara felt teeth rasp against her jaw.

"Don't need much of an imagination to guess what's stirring down here, now do I?"

She woke with a shudder, sweating and sticky and mortified, a lingering tension in the pit of her stomach. The name on her lips both a curse and a wish. Missy, the conniving fiend. Damn her and damn her mind games.

The dreams started a week ago, innocently enough. She'd dream of Skaro, pressed against a wall in the sewers, Missy pointing a gun at her, Missy dancing around empty, silent space framed by black holes doing the same, Missy's expression on the playground, her outstretched hand. She saw her face often, the lines of it in different lighting, and studied her angles with only a little unease, because it was not so unusual for one to see the main topic of their thoughts in non-waking hours. Then she had a dream about their first meeting, an alternative reality sprung forth from a short fantasy in which she hadn't turned down Missy's "official 3W greetings package." It had only gotten worse since then. She'd never been one for wet dreams, not until now. This had to be Missy's doing. Compared to her other feats, dream manipulation was likely nothing more than a parlour trick for her.

Clara made a point to casually ask the Doctor about dream-influencing technology or ability the next time she saw him over tea, making sure he was properly distracted with something interesting but harmless, so as to not peak his curiosity too much as she prodded at him nervously with her questions.

"Dreams?" he repeated after her, his owlish eyes locked on the little cube in his palms, severe brows furrowed, forehead wrinkled in a concentration not aimed at her. "Dreams. I don't know about controlling dreams. Plenty of things out there that can make you have nightmares though."

As much as Clara didn't care to admit it, what she'd experienced last night was certainly no nightmare. "You're sure there's nothing at all?"

He still hadn't looked up at her. The cube took precedent over her concerns. "I'm fairly sure. Why? And what is this confounding contraption? Why did you give it to me?"

Clara drummed her fingers against the table impatiently, her ire growing. "It's called a Rubik's cube. I thought you'd like it. You like puzzles."

"Who is Rubik?"

"I don't know. Not important. You're positive, then?"

He put the cube down and gave it a withering stare. Nothing happened. "Why do you keep asking? Are you having strange dreams?"

Clara blanched. "Strange? No, no, no stranger than usual, at least. Nothing new with me."

He was too focused on the cube to notice how bold and bad her lie was. He eventually and finally, with a sigh of defeat, pulled his screwdriver from his coat pocket and aimed it at the cube and again nothing happened. Clara shook her head, her teeth latched onto her inner cheek. "I'll leave you two to it then. Good talk."

He said nothing else as she left, throwing money on the table and stalking out of the diner feeling no less frustrated than she had before. Useless git.

Once she was home, a strange fear overtook her annoyance, as she realized she wasn't alone. There was nothing out of place, the door was still locked, but locked doors were of no consequence to Time Lords and Ladies, and the faintest hint of ozone and dried flowers pricked her nose.

She found Missy in her kitchen, tea cups and a kettle and a delicate little plate of sugar cubes laid out before her, hands clasped patiently in her lap. Fully dressed. Clara was almost disappointed and it showed. She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe, one brow lifted, trying desperately to feign disdain and to hide the sensation of relief she felt to see her sitting there. "Missy. What are you doing here?"

Missy gestured at the seat next to her, tilting her chin, her own arched brows furrowed in a false pout. "I felt left out. No one ever invites me to tea, so I decided to invite myself."

She poured some into a cup, steaming, and offered it to Clara, her pout morphing into a smirk, but Clara wasn't convinced. There was something more cautious about the way Missy was acting. More hesitant. She hadn't forgotten or likely forgiven what had happened on the playground. Clara swallowed as she met pale orbs that hinted at something more sorrowful than what Clara had been expecting. She shook her head. "You think I'm going to sit down to tea with you after what you've been doing to me?"

Missy, unable to hide it any longer, returned the glare, her face darkening. "If by 'what you've been doing to you' you mean taking you to see one of space's most incredible phenomenons, surprising you at work, making you tea, and all in all just being a real good romantic, then yes, I do think that."

"First off," Clara said, pointing a finger at Missy like she was scolding an unruly child. It was difficult for her to consolidate this Missy with the one she saw when her eyes were closed. "You _kidnapped_ me, you _interrupted_ me at work, and you _broke_ into my house. There's nothing romantic about any of that. And don't play dumb. I know you're making me have these dreams."

Missy, who was in the process of heaping a ludicrous amount of sugar into her own cup, paused and swung her gaze back up. "What dreams?"

"Oh, you know what dreams. Don't even try to lie about it. I know you're behind this."

Missy arched a brow, her voice condescending, mocking, as it always was. "Dear, you're raving. You sound like a loon. You should try and find yourself a decent therapist."

Clara's eye started to twitch and she realized she was near to throttling her. She stalked over and stood above Missy, looming right up in her space. "Stop. Making. Me. Have. These. Dreams," she nearly spat out from between clenched jaws. Missy stood then, taller than Clara, and looked down her nose at the furious little woman with very, very genuine confusion in her eyes. "Clara, sweetheart, for once in my very long and distinguished life, I can honestly say that I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about."

She wasn't lying. Clara knew she wasn't. She could see it in her face. Her mouth dropped open and she felt herself go pale. "Oh."

"Wait a minute."

"No."

Missy looked absolutely delighted. The blood that had rushed so desperately from Clara's face returned in a wave of heat and mortification. "You dreamed about me? Oh, my little love dog, how incredibly sweet, but no, that was all you. I had nothing to do with that."

Clara took a step back, her face brilliantly red, her ears blazing. "Oh my god."

"Oh. Hold on a moment."

Clara shook her head furiously. Missy's gleeful little smile twisted into something else as the pieces clicked into place.

"Missy. Please. Shut up."

"Oh, Clara. They were dirty dreams, weren't they?"

She could die. She could die right now and be okay with it. Missy could kill her, she wouldn't care. Then they'd both get what they wanted. "Oh god."

"Oh dear me, you're even cuter when you're flustered." Missy was ecstatic. Clara would never, in her life, live this moment down. She was on the verge of running off, probably to dig herself a nice deep grave, when Missy, in one smooth motion, took Clara and pushed her back, pinning her between the wall and Missy's body in a move that was painfully familiar. Clara gasped. She smelled the same as in her dreams, like smoke and lavender, her lips brushed Clara's jaw in the same way, her fingers were wrapped around Clara's wrists with surprising gentleness. Clara felt a tightness twisting into the pit of her stomach. Missy leaned forward and whispered into Clara's waiting ear, "dream hard enough, my Clara, and maybe it'll come true."

Then she was gone, as suddenly as she'd appeared, leaving Clara a ragged mess, hot and bothered and reaching blindly and without any self-control for something that was no longer there.

She'd been wrong. _Very_ wrong. That was absolutely the Missy of Clara's dreams.

* * *

Two chapters in one day cause I forgot to update here when I did on Ao3, sorry about that! All caught up now!


	4. Chapter 4

"What is it, specifically, that holds you back?"

"Distrust," Clara answered without pause. "I don't trust her."

Her therapist took some notes, occasionally glancing up at her through severe, graying brows as he wrote. One skinny and long leg crossed over his other knee. He looked like a stork and it brought her a strange kind of comfort. She'd picked him solely because he reminded her a bit of the Doctor. A frivolous reason, but she could tell the lookalike about her problems without incurring the wrath that was sure to be brought down upon her if her Doctor knew why she was here. He cleared his throat. "What is it about her that causes you to feel distrust?"

Clara twisted her mouth and bit on her lower lip. Where to start? Missy being a bloodthirsty immortal alien almost seemed the least of her faults. She was a self-proclaimed lunatic, a remorseless killer. She reveled in chaos. She was manipulative, she was cruel. She was arrogant and selfish to the point of uncaring. She never admitted to wrong doing. Her sole occupation other than world conquest seemed to be ruining Clara's life.

"She's... she's lied to me before," Clara answered lamely, resting her face in her hand, hiding her shame in the dimness of his office. She shifted uncomfortably and stared down at the carpet. "Many times. And she's betrayed me," she finished, and immediately winced at herself. Betrayed seemed like such a dramatic word, though a fitting one, and one that she'd need to explain.

"How so?"

 _She locked me inside the casing of the most evil alien species in the universe and then tried to trick my best friend into killing me and I still can't stand being in small or dark spaces and also she turned my dead boyfriend into a living weapon and when she looks at me I can't tell if she wants to murder or snog me (probably both?!) and also she once implied that she was literally going to eat me. For a start._

"She... pulled a prank on me that could have had incredibly bad results." True enough, in a way. She was not obligated to tell this man everything, after all. Part of her (a mutinous little part) was now even questioning how bad the "prank" had been. Missy herself said that traps are her flirting, nevermind that the method itself was not actually a traditional or even reasonable one but it was working on Clara well enough. In this same moment though Clara realized that if she was somehow trying to justify Missy's objectively reprehensible actions (and even find them endearing) then she needed therapy more desperately than she thought.

Her counselor gave her a knowing look, peering out at her from under his brows. "Trust is essential in a healthy relationship."

She nearly laughed at the phrasing. Healthy relationship, her arse. "I know. But... she's hasn't done anything like that since." In fact, Clara hadn't seen or heard from Missy since that day in her kitchen, a memory that even now caused blood to rush to her ears and made her hands tremble.

Also, that was a lie. She'd seen plenty of Missy. In her dreams. But she was never ever mentioning those to anyone again. Perhaps in hindsight she was jumping the gun a bit in discussing or even considering that they had any sort of relationship at all, outside of whatever tortuous hell that the Mistress was putting her through out of what seemed to be sheer boredom and a dangerous amount of creativity.

She also understood, however, that if she didn't talk about these developments with someone, anyone, that she'd likely go as mad as Missy. A terrifying but maybe logical fear given that she was the reason Clara was even here anyway. The scrawling of a pencil broke her reverie. Clara craned her neck to try to catch a glimpse of what he was writing. "What is it that attracts you to her, Clara?"

To her chagrin she didn't need more than a moment to answer. "She's brilliant. Madly brilliant. She's beautiful, she's wild, she's unapologetically confident, she's powerful." Clara paused. _She's mad, she's unpredictable, she's uncontrollable._ Clara didn't say those last three things outloud and she wondered why they were on her "why are you attracted to the potentially most dangerous individual in the universe" list, especially given Clara's own control issues. That was a topic for a different session though. The doctor grinned a little as he wrote. Clearly this description reminded him a bit of someone else she'd mentioned a couple of times before. "Sounds to me like perhaps individuals with a god complex have a certain sort of appeal for you."

Clara smiled back. _You have no idea._

"For you, the appeal of being with her outweighs the distrust then. Otherwise we wouldn't be discussing this."

Clara blushed. "I don't know. Maybe. Probably, yeah. Doesn't make me feel any better."

He shrugged, still looking at his notes. "Would she ever consider sitting in with us one of these days? Couples therapy can be incredibly beneficial."

Clara was immediately overcome by a cold sweat as she imagined how that session would unfold. Missy would absolutely love it, no doubt. Assuming Missy didn't vaporize him just for fun, her therapist would have a field day with her and then would probably try to get them both committed, Missy because she's undoubtedly certifiable and Clara because she likely is too for actually attempting to be in a meaningful relationship with such a person.

She swallowed. "I don't think that's a very good idea, to be honest."

"Well," he said, finally looking up at her. "I may have another idea, something that will allow you to build some trust in her with minimal risk. I assume you would like to trust her, given the opportunity?"

As unlikely as it seemed that Clara could ever trust the Mistress, and as impossible at it was to do so with "minimal risk" because even looking at Missy seemed to impose on her a sense of danger, she nodded.

"Then simply give her a chance."

Clara sat there, waiting for more, before eventually realizing that that was his big idea. "Give her a chance?"

He nodded. "Yes. We've spoken briefly about this before. I know you've suffered a loss. Going what you went through with Danny would make anyone feel like they didn't have enough control over what was happening in their lives and who they were wanting to be with. I'm sure part of you is afraid of losing anyone like you lost him. I'm also sure that you feel a little guilty for wanting to be with someone else after him."

Clara swallowed, shifting her gaze away. Her chest felt tight.

"You overanalyze, Clara," he continued, gently. "You need to trust your instincts and stop trying to control them. In spite of all these red flags, you find yourself wanting to be around this woman. I say, trust yourself. Spend some time with her. Meaningful time."

Clara stared at him. "You're basically just telling me to take her on a date and see what happens." It was the equivalent of starting a fire just to see how big it gets. Risky and very very stupid. Also something Missy would do.

He smiled at the look on her face. "From what I've heard, you haven't been dating. You've simply been dancing around the possibility of it."

Dancing, yes, that was a good word for it. Technically, they'd been on one date, and _technically_ that had been an abduction. Clara surmised that they weren't one and the same.

At her silence he put his notebook down and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. "This is going to sound rudimentary to someone like you, but it doesn't help to have a reminder. Sometimes to get what we want out of life we have to take chances. It seems to me that in spite of all the things about her that you fear, there are things about her that you like. Maybe even love. Maybe a lot of those things go hand in hand for you."

Clara gnawed on her fingernail a bit. He might've hit the nail on the head there, but what did it say about her if fear and love were the same?

A shameless and familiar voice of reason infiltrated her thoughts. _You have a fascination with disaster, my Clara_.

"So, to conclude: yes, Clara. I think you should go on a date. The awkward stepping stone of almost every couple out there, tried and true. Worst that can happen is that you realize that maybe the cons don't beat the pros with her, and that's okay. You won't know unless you try."

Clara looked down at her hands. That was absolutely not the worst that could happen. Perhaps if she'd been more honest with him regarding her issues with Missy he'd be talking less about dating and more about a restraining order. Nonetheless, whatever stupid and mad part of her that the Mistress had managed to ensnare wanted this to work, for whatever reason that was. And after all, it was Missy that told her she wanted to take her places. If that wasn't Gallifreyan for "I want to date you," then she wasn't sure what was.

"I'll give it a go. It's on your head when she ends up killing me though."

He laughed, thinking she was joking. She laughed too even though she wasn't.


	5. Chapter 5

It was some time later, after many an hour of agonizing deliberation and psyching up, and finally deciding that her want for closeness overruled her distrust, that Clara realized she hadn't the faintest idea how to find Missy. There was no way to summon her and no way of knowing where she was. Previous meetings had always been at the Mistress's behest. Every rendezvous was orchestrated in spite of the spontaneous nature of her actions, and Clara found herself plotting how to lure Missy out. These efforts (including tea with the Doctor once more, staring out at the playground, saying her name three times into the mirror and even trying to bait her jealousy by going to lunch with Adrien) had proved futile, as it became infuriatingly clear that Missy was even more elusive than the Doctor and would only be found if she wanted to be found.

Clara, discouraged, attempted to find solace in literature, Brontë specifically, a normally effective diversion, but the English teacher in her found symbolism in nearly every sentence and it only made her subject's absence all the more noticeable, so that Heathcliff's volatile temper and Catherine's flighty jealousy became a metaphor that was all too familiar.

"Had I known how hard it would be to even find her I never would have agreed to this," she'd lamented to herself in a breathy huff of annoyance, nearly unable to concentrate on the book cracked open between her hands. Wuthering Heights was a yearly read, partially because it was part of her student's curriculum and because even after all these years it was a dear favorite. This revival however felt different. Arrogant, greedy, haughty Catherine strongly reminded her of someone else and she had to struggle with her mental image to not replace the deep brown Earnshaw eyes with a paler hue. Nearly every description of mischief and selfishness brought to mind a frenzy of curls and burgundy lips.

"She was never so happy as when we were all scolding her at once," Clara read aloud, forcing her attention to the text, "and she defying us with her bold, saucy look, and her ready words; turning Joseph's religious curses into ridicule-"

An insistent and sudden tapping behind her made her nearly scream and the book dropped with a heavy thud. Clara swung her head around wildly. It was Missy, looming at her window in the dark, her eyes mirthful and her grin self-satisfied, ever unable or unwanting to disguise the happiness she felt at flustering the hell out of Clara. "Heathcliff," she sang out, high voice faintly muffled by the glass, "its me, Cathy!"

Clara stared at her openly, baffled and terrified. She could feel her heart slamming in her throat. Missy placed her palms on the glass and started doing a strange little dance. "I've come home I'm, so co-o-o-old let me in your, windo-o-o-ow."

"Bloody psychopath!" Clara muttered. She nearly flung herself over to where Missy stood and threw the window open with equal anger and eagerness. "What the hell are you doing?"

Missy smiled and it thrilled Clara just a little, her eyes hooding themselves behind an eternal, victorious sneer. "Not a Kate Bush fan, then? Great to see you too, by the way."

"Where have you been?"

"I've been around," she answered cryptically, studying Clara's face. She tilted her head and looked past her into the living room. "Are you going to let me in or not dear? Rather rude to keep me waiting."

"Why should I?"

Missy looked at Clara like she's grown a second head. "Because you want to. And it really is a bit cold out here."

Clara looked down between her hands, debating shutting the window and pretending none of this had happened, but the momentary wrestle with her reticence saw Missy's inescapable allure come out on top. "Come on then," she muttered, flicking her eyes back up, but Missy was no longer there. Clara stuck her head outside and called for her. "Missy?"

"Yes?"

Clara jerked up at the sound, smacking her head on the sill and cursing. Missy was behind her, seated in the chair she'd just been occupying. "What was the point of all that if you were just going to teleport in anyway?" she snapped, rubbing the sore spot on the back of her head.

"To annoy you, my simpleminded little puppy," Missy retorted in an infantile tone of voice, deriving a certain sort of pleasure from Clara's frustration with her. She picked up the book from the floor by its spine and closed it, tracing her fingers over the cover. "Do you want to go out?"

Clara gave her a look, her eager surprise at Missy's plaintive question combative against her continued vexation. "You can't insult me one moment then ask me if I want to go out in the next."

Missy curled a lip at her and leaned back into the chair. "Please, don't assume I'm not aware of what you've been doing. Trying to draw me out. That bit with your floppyhaired, bow tie wearing Eleven-looking friend was a good one," she conceded, laying her hand against her cheek and swinging her eyes to meet Clara's. "Almost got me."

Clara let out a little laugh, short and humorless. "It surprised me that it didn't work. You're usually so predictable."

It was a bold-faced lie and Missy knew it as well as Clara did, and surprised her once more with her response: a nearly sorrowful smile and careful eyes. An honest and lightly pleading expression that was reminiscent of her face on the playground that caught Clara off her guard and nearly, just nearly, made her regret her coldness.

It had been easier, before Clara knew her too well, to dismiss the Mistress as a bombastic sort of creature, pretentious and grandiose, rife with finesse but ultimately lacking profundity, only capable and deserving of a shallow sort of attention, like the intense but ultimately vain compulsion of being unable to look away from an explosion or a wildfire or a car accident. A savage thing barely worth remembering. Even recently her shameful attraction had felt shallow, skin-deep, at least until she'd given it some thought. Looking at her now, emotions laid bare, aware of the personhood of the Mistress and not just the concept, it was impossible to not see a level of depth that Clara realized she had terribly underestimated.

Missy's voice was soft. "I gave her my heart," she whispered, "and she took and pinched it to death; and flung it back to me."

Clara let her gaze settle on the Mistress, who sat open and vulnerable. So much more so than what she could have expected. Seeing her here now, like this, it was nearly impossible to stay angry. Clara cursed her own lack of willpower. What she'd recited was a quote almost directly from the book. Clara searched her memory for one of her own and whispered it back. "Terror made me cruel."

It was as close to an apology as Clara could muster, but it seemed good enough for Missy. She blinked and the brazen and shameless quality of her proud visage returned, triumphant, the shifting of her moods as volatile and sudden as always."You're terrified of me? My my, dear Clara. You really know what to say to make a girl blush."

Clara rolled her eyes but felt her cheeks darken nonetheless. "What's the plan?"

"Ooh, feeling adventurous are we?" Missy prodded, her accent coming out stronger when she was feeling particular sassy, Clara noticed. Missy stood. "I saw your motorbike outside. I'd like to take it for a drive and I'd like it more if you'd come with me."

Clara lifted a brow. "You want me to ride passenger on my own bike? And do you even know how to drive it?"

Missy scoffed openly at her. "I can pilot a TARDIS, you think I can't manage one your little human toys?"

Clara conceded. "Fair enough point." She looked the Mistress up and down, feeling the stirrings of a smile flit at the corners of her mouth. "Wouldn't recommend it in that outfit though."

"I'll borrow some of your clothes," Missy answered, making her way towards Clara's bedroom before she could stop her.

"Hang on, you can't just go in there-"

Missy spun and froze the pursuing human with a single look. "I'm a big girl, pup, I can dress myself."

She was gone and the door shut before Clara could say a word. She stood there, dumbfounded and confused and just a tiny bit excited with impatience.

She didn't have to wait long. Less than a minute passed before the door was flung open. Missy stood there, backlit by the light of her bedroom, Clara gawking openly at the new look. A grin spread across her face at the girl's expression. "You like it?"

She was in one of Clara's leather biker jackets, with black pants that tapered into her usual boots. A white scarf was wrapped around her neck with the brooch pinned under her throat. It was a look that Clara never would have expected to work on a woman like Missy, given the iconic psycho Mary Poppins thing she had going (Clara wouldn't admit it but that look was hot in it's own way.) But now she looked like a badass. A dangerous, asskicking, undeniably sexy badass. Missy tossed her head at her. "Lift your chin off the floor long enough to hand me the keys, won't you?" Missy said, clearly enjoying the attention. Clara's teeth clicked together and without thinking she fished around in her pockets and tossed them over. Missy caught them and winked at her. "This'll be fun."

They walked outside. It was a chill night, windy and star filled, but Clara nearly start to sweat at the sight of Missy straddling her bike. She climbed on behind and easily fit against her, her chest flush against Missy's back. They took off with a squeal of rubber and whatever shouted objections Clara had were lost over the roar of the motor and Missy's laughter. They sped out of her neighborhood and into the city where they were met with a cacophony of honking horns and cursing as Missy wove her way through traffic, as at ease on Clara's motorbike as she was at the controls of the TARDIS, with Clara clinging to her desperately, her arms wrapped around her waist in a deathlock, muttering plenty of breathless Oh My Gods and Stops and Pleases into Missy's willingly deaf ears, blindly terrified and wildeyed as the road beneath them passed by in a blur of black. What she hadn't taken into account when she agreed to this was the excellent probability that Missy liked to go fast, and go fast they did.

They roamed beyond the city outskirts and into the country, into a wily and windy moor moving parallel to dark night fields. Out here the road was straight and flat and Missy throttled up, blazing through the murk and laughing silently into the windscream. Clara felt three hearts pounding and felt her lips curl into a wild smile as adrenaline overtook her terror. She pressed her face into Missy's hair and shut her eyes, grinning into her neck. They cut a beam of light into the darkness, careless night riders on a hell race towards whatever calamitous end was in store for them, and with a thrill Clara came to understand that this senseless fearlessness of death and danger she was experiencing was how Missy felt all the time, and realized just exactly how freeing it was to simply let go.

They came to a drifting stop at the edge of a low overlook that hung over a gloomy wilderness, shrouded in fog. They staggered off the bike grinning and giggling, clinging to each other, both gasping for breath. Missy's curls were windblown and wild, and she danced around Clara, half-savage and giddy, and in a sudden outburst said something to her in a voice high from the thrill of their ride, nearly shouting over the residual hum vibrating in their ears.

"You make me feel young again."

It was said shamelessly, candidly, and Clara felt her lips pull apart. To be the reciever of such a statement for a creature so timeless and ageless as a Time Lady was a surprising honor, one that made the human feel a warm, strange sort of significance and made her wonder why her she'd ever refused her and made her doubt her own motives for doing so. Clara didn't disguise her pleasure, she felt no need to, when she reached for Missy to bring her to stillness, like plucking a feather from the wind, and brought her lips against hers, spearing her fingers into wayward curls and taking in the laughter against her mouth, one of many memorized passages briefly and vaguely coming to mind as Missy greedily took her in, for Missy would not be ignored or be prioritized behind a damn book, and with a gentle bite on her lips demanded Clara's full attention.

"She put all of us past our patience fifty times and oftener in a day: from the hour she came downstairs till the hour she went to bed, we had not a minute's security that she wouldn't be in mischief. Her spirits were always at high-water mark, her tongue always going—singing, laughing, and plaguing everybody who would not do the same. A wild, wicked slip she was—but she had the bonniest eye, the sweetest smile, and lightest foot in the parish: and, after all, I believe she meant no harm; for when once she made you cry in good earnest, it seldom happened that she would not keep you company, and oblige you to be quiet that you might comfort her."


	6. Chapter 6

Clara was drumming her fingers when another hand reached out and grabbed hers, suddenly and without warning. She jerked it away out of instinct but the hand held on.

"What are you doing?" The Doctor asked her. She'd nearly forgotten he was here with her. Her mind was somewhere else.

"What am I doing?" she repeated blankly, looking down at their hands. He still held it, his grip a bit strong as if he was trying to still it. He stared at her with concern lining itself in his eyes and in his brows and in the creases of his face. "Where did you hear that rhythm?"

" _What_ rhythm?" she asked him, shaking her head back and forth a little. Still holding her there, he pulled his screwdriver from his pocket and swiped it across her face. "That rhythm. That four beat rhythm. _taptaptapTap_. You were drumming it with your fingers. Where did you hear it?"

Clara hadn't even realized that she'd been doing anything with her fingers. "I didn't notice. It's just something people do when they're bored."

He looked confused. They were in the TARDIS, for Christsake. "You're bored right now, here?"

"No, I'm not bored, I just mean-" She shook her head again, trying to clear it. "Why are you asking me these things? What's wrong?"

He was looking at her weirdly, not with distrust but with a little fear. "When was the last time you saw Missy? Have you seen her since Skaro? Did she call you?"

Clara blanched and immediately felt warm and for some unknowable reason she felt guilty. _Of course_. "Missy? Why?"

"That rhythm. That's _her_ drumbeat. Have you seen her?"

Her drumbeat. Clara knew about the drums. She'd started to notice that Missy would often tap her nails to the same beat, she'd dance in steps of four, she sometimes speak in that same cadence. _taptaptapTap_. It wasn't something she could help, Clara knew, but her drumbeat had become Clara's without her even noticing.

The Doctor had noticed though.

"I haven't seen her," Clara lied.

"Are you positive?"

"Yes," she lied again. He let go of her hand and put his own on the back of his neck. He didn't seem to believe her, or at least didn't believe her memory. "I've seen her do incredible things. Mind control, hypnotism, on a very large scale," he rasped nervously, pacing around the console of the TARDIS, still watching her. "She prides herself on being convincing. I guess she is, in a way. You're sure you haven't seen her, or remember seeing her? Even if you didn't speak."

"I haven't seen her."

"I guess it wouldn't matter," he said, not really answering her. "She could make you forget you'd seen her if she wanted to."

Clara certainly hadn't forgotten seeing her. She hadn't forgotten the things _besides_ seeing she'd done with the Mistress as well.

"I'm not hypnotized."

He looked at her wildly. "That's _exactly_ what someone who is hypnotized would say!"

She laughed nervously. He was teasing her now a bit, though his eyes didn't hide his doubt for the remainder of their short and comparatively uneventful journey, and against her own judgment and instincts she wasn't sure she could question her own doubts either.

She found Missy at home, sitting on her porch, jacket off in the light heat, sleeves rolled up, skirt hiked up around her crossed knees, sipping tea, wearing big black sunglasses that Clara immediately decided looked excellent on her and humming "Life on Mars." The thrill from the last time she'd seen her remained. A buzzing in her veins, a little bit of soreness between her legs from gripping the bike seat. She'd insisted that Missy keep the outfit, that leather jacket never looked as good on Clara as it had on her anyway.

Seeing her now though she felt guilty, both for her own wonderings, though they were certainly justified, and because she'd lied to the Doctor about something that was undeniably important. It wasn't like she was cheating on him, at least it didn't seem that way. He was her best friend, after all, not her boyfriend, as he'd insisted.

"What's wrong pup?" Missy drawled, eyes down at her tea, watching the spoon as she swirled it around in the cup. She hit each quadrant of the cup with every rotation, her timing too precise to be accidental. _dingdingdingDing_. Missy was _not_ her friend, and she wasn't her girlfriend. What she was was something that Clara wasn't entirely sure she could define. Not yet, at least. Answers first.

"Have you ever hypnotized me?"

Clara watched Missy's profile carefully after this question. Her eyes flicked to the right, the muscle in her jaw twitched. She kept her gaze on her cup as she spoke. "Well well well, _someone's_ been talking to the Doctor," she said, her low voice laced with indignance and a little bit of false laughter. "Why would I?"

"I don't know. To use me to get to him."

"I've no interest in torturing the Doctor any longer. My attention is focused elsewhere." She looked straight at Clara while she said this, the stirrings of a weak smirk at her lips. "But what makes you think I would _need_ to hypnotize you? Think I can't get someone to want to be around me without using it?"

She had a look on her face that Clara didn't recognize. "Well, I just wouldn't put it past you."

Not the right thing to say. Missy inhaled sharply. Clara wished then that she'd take the sunglasses off so she could see her face. "No. I didn't hypnotize you. I get that you wouldn't be surprised to have it coming from a murderous bitch like me but there you have it."

Insulted. She was insulted. That was the look Clara couldn't identify. Missy never felt shame and seemed to take smack talk just as well as she dished it, but Clara asking that one question had insulted her. She surprised herself then when she felt a different kind of guilt. Missy wouldn't hurt her. Not now. She hadn't explicitly done anything to prove it but Clara somehow knew she wouldn't. She was taking this "trust your instincts" thing as seriously as she could and her instincts were telling her that she was being paranoid and even hurtful.

"I'm sorry. The Doctor just freaked me out a little," Clara said, taking a step towards her. The Mistress was looking anywhere but at her. Clara squatted down to meet her at eye level and waited patiently. Finally Missy shrugged, her lips curling. "Can't blame you," she said breezily, "I get that those little human brains of yours get overwhelmed rather easily. Not your fault at all."

"You know the Doctor almost caught us. He heard me tapping out your drumbeat."

"Please," Missy said with a laugh. "That man is romantically oblivious. You could show him a diagram and he wouldn't have the slightest idea what was happening. He'd furrow those ridiculous brows together and whip out that screwdriver and damn near break his brain trying to figure it out."

Clara couldn't hold in her own giggles. There she was. The Missy that Clara knew. Snide and honest as ever, but the hint of relief in her expression made her look so terribly human. And she knew that the Time Lady couldn't stay upset at her for long anyway. No one can hold a grudge against a puppy.

Clara reached up and gently took the sunglasses off her face. Pale eyes met hers willingly. "Say something nice," Missy murmured, pliant and sweet at this proximity, her mood swings enough to give Clara whiplash. She leaned forward and kissed her instead.


End file.
